


24 Hours (Quarantine)

by crazygirlne



Series: Captain Canary Fic Bingo [3]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Quarantine, Stuck in a room together for 24 hours, some sexual tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 22:31:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6212704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazygirlne/pseuds/crazygirlne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonard and Sara are stuck in a quarantine room for 24 hours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	24 Hours (Quarantine)

**Author's Note:**

> I decided I’m setting all the fic bingo fics in the same ‘verse, but I’m writing them so that they can stand alone, too. Added series to Ao3 accordingly. Prompt/square will continue to be in parentheses.

“Well, this should be fun.” Leonard’s voice is dripping with just the right amount of sarcasm as the doors to the quarantine close.

“Could be worse.” Sara’s rubbing her arm, staring at the door. He’s not seen her look this uncomfortable often; he’s pretty sure even someone who doesn’t know her can see she’s not a fan of being trapped in here. “At least it’s just for 24 hours.” She looks toward him, pulling her other arm up so they’re crossed over her chest, seeming to pull herself together in the process. “And I suppose the company could be worse.”

Len chuckles. She’s recently started sleeping on the spare cot in his room each night. They train together not infrequently. While he tolerates, even sometimes admires the rest of the team, being stuck in this room with anyone else would be a nightmare. He may have doubts sometimes, but he’s secure enough in Sara’s companionship that he knows she feels the same about his presence here as he does hers.

“Could do without the waiting to see if we get sick,” he says.

“Better than waiting to freeze to death.” Sara drops her arms and looks around the room. He knows what she’s seeing: two cots, similar to the ones in his room, only they’re along the same wall instead of across from each other; a ridiculously tiny “bathroom” with an even smaller wall to provide an attempt at privacy; some open space, but not enough to train safely; no television, books, or any other form of entertainment; two cameras near the ceiling, a reminder that Gideon is watching remotely from the ship; a small stack of Meals, Ready to Eat so they don't starve.

“True,” he responds, leaning against the wall and watching her, his arms crossed. Their time in the freezing hallway had, at least, not been all bad. It had been painful, and remembering how he’d still been optimistic about Mick is bittersweet. But something had shifted between him and Sara, around the time he’d given her his jacket.

_Here. Your shivering is getting on my nerves._

_Gee, thanks, Snart._

And now they’re trapped together again. Waiting. All because of some virus they might or might not have been exposed to on a mission. It’s not likely they caught it, and it’s not even deadly if they do, not for two healthy people from their century. But Rip says it’s debilitating, and it’s potentially deadly for some of the people they might encounter.

The first hour creeps by uneventfully. Leonard has spent more than an hour in one position before, and watching Sara fidget as she switches back and forth from standing to sitting on the cot, it isn’t the worst thing he’s ever had to look at.

The second hour, Sara’s had enough of the silence.

“So, what’s your favorite color?” She’s settled on sitting on the floor across the room from where he stands.

“What are we, in middle school?”

“Come on, Leonard. What else is there to do?”

She looks bored, disinterested, but only on the surface. Her eyes are bright, either with interest or with desperation.

“Silence is not always a bad thing, Lance.”

Sara rolls her eyes. “I know that, _Snart_. But we've been silent for an hour and we've got twenty-three left. We can sleep for some of that, but you really want to just ignore each other for the rest of the time?”

There are other activities that don't require talking, sleeping, _or_ ignoring each other, but he isn't gonna let himself consider those serious options. Besides, they're being monitored in case they start spewing fluids or whatever the virus is supposed to do if they got infected, he reminds himself.

Except that now that it's crossed his mind, it is impossible to completely dismiss the idea that they could pass the time with more enjoyable, more physical activities than exchanging questions like they're having a sleepover. Impossible not to wonder (now that they don't have a mission to worry about, training to focus on, guilt to overcome) whether her lips would be as animated kissing him as they are when she insults him. Whether her gaze would be as intense when they came together as it is when she watches him after a rough mission.

He closes his eyes and sinks to the floor, mirroring her position. He has got to get his mind on something else before he makes a fool of himself and she kicks his ass for it. “Blue,” he says, louder than he means.

“Your favorite color is blue?” He opens his eyes to see she looks as incredulous as she sounds. “You mean like your weapon? Couldn't pick something more original?”

“Couldn't pick a more original question?” he shoots back. He's rewarded with a laugh.

“Alright, fine. If you were in charge of the ship, and you could go anywhere, time and place, where would you pick?” She's skipped from unoriginal to impossible.

“I already know I can't change my past,” he says as he thinks. “It just fucks itself up again. I wouldn't want to return to when we left, not yet. Not with things undone.” _Not without Mick._ “I don't know. Maybe I'd visit some private island in the future, get the lottery numbers while I'm there. Blueprints to a building that would be a challenge to hit.”

Sara chuckles again. “Not the worst plan I've heard. Maybe I'll join you.”

Sara Lance, on a private island with him. He needs to dismiss the immediate images of her wearing a bikini or less.

“Does that make it my turn to ask a question?” he inquires dryly.

An hour passes this way, then another. He learns what Sara likes to eat, her favorite dance, learns about her family. She learns more than he'd meant to share about his childhood, learns about Lisa, about his first job. The exchanges slow, and Sara stands suddenly.

He watches, eyebrow raised, as she tips one cot over and against the wall, then the other, giving them a couple more feet of space.

“Come on,” she says, looking down at him, unfazed by the skeptical look he's giving her. “Join me or stay out of the way, but you're gonna need to be standing.”

“What now?” He complains, but he's doing as she says anyway, because he's intrigued and because he's tired of sitting and because it's Sara who's asking.

“I can at least practice some martial arts forms while we're waiting. I think there's enough room. Follow along, if you think you can keep up.” One side of her mouth is pulled upward, challenge clear on her face before she moves straight into her forms.

The first time, he stays out of the way. He watches her because it's _her_ , because he's always loved the way she moves, and she's given him an invitation to watch. She brings out the grace and the precision in the movements, controlled and powerful.

The second time, he tries to remember her motions. There are about twenty in the pattern, but there's a flow to them, one moving into the next.

The third time, he's standing a little behind and beside her, and he follows along. By the fifth time, he's pretty sure he's got the general moves down. When he starts through again, Sara turns to watch him. She knows when it's safe to move, and he's watching her, so he isn't as surprised as he could be when she steps close.

“Here.” Her voice is low as she corrects subtleties in his stance, in the way he holds his arms, her fingers pressing lightly against his shirt, her foot tapping his ankle until he adjusts, until she's satisfied and lets him move to the next step. He's sweating by the time he gets it all right, and it isn't just from the physical exertion.

The seventh hour of quarantine, they nap. Or at least, Sara does. They've righted the cots and both gotten comfortable with their heads near the center of the wall ( _I don't want to have to smell your feet, Leonard_ ). Her head is close enough to his that he can hear when her breath evens out. He knows by now what she sounds like when she's asleep.

He's wondering increasingly often what she'd sound like if she were sleeping with him in the more physical sense of the word. He's not used to this, not used to this level of _want_ for someone, but from the beginning, they've clicked.

They've also clashed. Just getting along would be boring. It wouldn't hold his interest. But she gets him, in a way pretty much no one does, and she challenges him, keeps him on his toes.

Plus there's the way she moves.

On the ship each night, when they go to sleep, there's a routine that helps his mind stay on track, and there's the fact that he knows if he opens his eyes, he can see her watching him, and it's a little harder to fantasize when your fantasy is in front of you and could kick your ass for stepping out of line.

Then again, that's also part of the appeal. They're well-matched, physically and mentally. The sex would be electric.

He sighs, reminding himself of the reasons he shouldn't try anything even if she's interested, trying to ignore his almost automatic counterarguments. She's too young (she hasn't been young for a long time). She's too good (she was an assassin; she's familiar with the darkness). They should be focused on their missions (but hey, they were focused today, and now look at them).

Eventually, he naps, only to be woken by Sara moving through forms again, more complex ones this time. She has plenty of space to do them when he isn't following along. He watches, his eyelids raised just enough to see, while she dances through the lethal movements.

By the tenth hour, he is really and truly bored. Even assuming he will be able to sleep for eight full hours (it's rare even without a nap), that still leaves another six hours to kill. He turns to look at Sara, who is sitting next to him on her cot. She's watching him, and he's not sure what to call the expression on her face.

“You're pretty good looking when you're not being an ass.”

He blinks at her. “What?”

“I said that you're--”

“I heard you,” he interrupts. “Just not sure I follow.”

It's her turn to look confused. “What's there to follow? The part where you're good looking or the part where you're usually an ass?”

He smirks despite himself. “The part where you're telling me this. Why?”

She shrugs, a small movement of the shoulder nearest him, without breaking eye contact. “I've been thinking it. Thought you should know.”

So he hasn't been imagining their connection, their chemistry. He hasn’t been projecting when he thinks he catches her watching him with something like desire. He knows that her finding him attractive doesn't mean shit as far as whether she wants to _do_ something about it, the same as he doesn't want her only because she's hot, but it's something.

“You're not so bad yourself.” The silence after his declaration is too loud. He gets up and starts trying to work through some of the movements he'd watched earlier.

Sara helps.

The fourteenth hour, Len is getting tired. He jumps when Sara starts pulling her cot away from the wall, the scrape of metal against concrete echoing through the room.

“Where are you going with that?” he asks.

“Right here.” She pulls it out and over so that their cots are alongside one another instead of alongside the wall. This is much more like how they usually sleep, and he feels something inside him relax.

Something else coils a little more tightly when he sees she's positioned them just inches apart instead of feet.

She sprawls out on her cot, and when he rolls over in his, her eyes are much too close. He should move away, he knows, or ask her to. He should turn and look up at the ceiling.

Only, it's Sara, and she's looking at him _that way_ again, and maybe he isn't going to make a move, but why should he make it harder for her if she decides to?

He's stripped to his undershirt, and when her eyes leave his to move to a point on his arm, he's both relieved and disappointed.

“Where'd you get this?” She's touching a small scar as she speaks, her blue eyes just visible under long lashes, and he has to breathe before he can focus on the answer.

Whether by chance or because she can tell through experience, she's chosen one of his few scars without a particularly unhappy tale.

“I was climbing a tree, getting a Frisbee down for my sister. Got up there, got it, no problem. Except, when I’m almost back down, I slip.” He smiles, and her eyes move to his lips. He swallows. “I land on a stick. Don't even realize I'm bleeding at first, just happy I got that damned Frisbee out of the tree. Lisa patches me up, and then not ten minutes later, the Frisbee gets stuck again.”

“Everything we do, and you're scarred by a stick.” Sara’s eyes flit back to the scar while he processes.

_We._ She doesn't count what he does as more or less dangerous, more or less important or bad or good or…

He doesn't see her closing the space between them until her lips are on his. He's still for one beat, two, then returns the pressure, his hand moving involuntarily to the back of her head. One of them moans when they deepen the kiss.

By the fifteenth hour, she's straddling him, and it's only the knowledge that they're maybe being watched that keeps them from going beyond kissing. Meanwhile, she burns against him, friction and heat and passion.

“See?” Sara breaks from him long enough to say, breathlessly. “We’ve moved past middle school and onto the high-school portion of our stay: making out like teenagers.”

It’s easier to pull her back down for another kiss than it is to respond.

They sleep, eventually, Sara’s cot pulled flush against his. They aren't cuddling, not with the knowledge that their team could pull up the video feed from Gideon; somehow, that seems more intimate than the make-out session that so effectively passed the time. He's not really sure either of them are the cuddling type, anyway, but he's willing to find out, later.

By the twenty-fourth hour, when the doors open, Gideon presumably pronouncing them healthy, the cots are in place and their clothes are straight.

“So,” Sara asks as they walk into the hallway, “was it as fun as you expected?”

He sees Ray and the professor at the end of the hall, on their way to the retrieve them, so Leonard can't demonstrate exactly how much he means it when he says, “Parts of it were mind-blowing. Just for the record, in case we decide that wasn't a one-time thing? There aren't any cameras in my room.”

He’s doubting again. He knows she likes him fine as a person, but what if the physical intimacy was just a distraction? He knows she liked being stuck in there less than he did.

Sara has just enough time to respond, her voice rough, before they have company: “Len, we both know that wasn't a one-time thing.”


End file.
